


Coffee Cake

by youreyeslookliketheocean



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), the dream smp - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dream Smp, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exile, Hurt/Comfort, I didn't think it was that sad writing it but looking at these tags I'm getting concerned..., Idk how to tag things, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, TW: Mention of Abuse, post exile, tw: mention of suicidal thoughts, tw: panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29541573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyeslookliketheocean/pseuds/youreyeslookliketheocean
Summary: “Phil smelled like coffee cake. Cinnamon and sugar and warm morning coffee. It was a stark contrast to the smells Tommy had become accustomed to in exile: grass and dirt and the charred, burning smell of lava that stung the very back of his nose. Dream’s smell. The smell of oak wood and TNT. ...”Aka Tommy goes to Techno’s house like normal canon but Phil turns out to be there.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 152





	Coffee Cake

Tommy’s eyelids were so heavy, it felt like anvils were pulling them downwards. He couldn’t sleep now, though. Not when he’d just made it to Technoblade’s house. Not when warmth and food and shelter were finally within reach. Not when there was a chance, even just a small one, that he could be safe here.

Tommy’s teeth chattered as he put one foot up onto the stairs leading to Technoblade’s cabin, then the other. The smooth stone was cold beneath his tattered, worn shoes. He could feel it through the holes he’d torn in the leather toes and heels.

He continued climbing the staircase until he reached the top, where a thick, heavy-looking, wooden door blocked his path. Now came the question: should he knock?

Tommy fidgeted in place, snow crunching beneath his feet. He wasn’t even sure if Technoblade was home. Carl, Techno’s horse, was absent from his pen outside the cabin, but the lights inside the house were on. Of course, leaving lights on was fairly common—even in an empty house—because it tended to help keep mobs away. But was that why Techno’s lights were on right now? There was no way to know for sure.

The wind whistled, snowflakes hitting Tommy’s face and burning like needles that had been dipped in acid. He glanced down at his hands, which had been curled into fists at his sides in a desperate attempt to keep warm, and noted with a tinge of panic that his fingers were starting to turn blue. He hadn’t been able to feel them in who knew how long.

There was no more time to hesitate. If he stayed out here much longer, he’d die. If he walked inside and Techno turned out to be home, he’d also most likely die. But there was a chance, a small chance, that Techno wasn’t home. And if Techno wasn’t home...

His mind made up, Tommy grabbed the door handle, turned it, and pushed.

Immediately, a gush of warm air spilled out from inside the house. Light bathed the entire front porch in a golden glow, reflecting in a thousand sparkles off the wet snow.

Tommy stepped warily inside, and the door closed behind him with a click.

Technoblade’s house was small, but homey. The wooden floor creaked as Tommy made his way to the middle of the room and spun around, getting a look at the whole house. A maroon colored, plush couch sat up against one wall, and the other wall was lined with big, cottage windows. There was a fireplace in the corner, and although no one appeared to be home, tiny flames still licked the small scraps of wood left inside. A warm glow permeated the entire room.

Tommy sighed as his limbs began to tingle, finally coming back to life after being near-frozen in the snow. The fire was warm and inviting, and he would have gone to sit closer to it if his eyes hadn’t caught on something else in the room. The final detail, the one that really drew Tommy in, was the four chests stacked on top of each other against the last wall.

_Food. There's probably food in there_ , Tommy thought. His stomach had long since stopped growling—the hunger-pangs fading away as his body realized that keeping warm was more important—but he knew he needed to eat something. He couldn’t remember the last thing he’d eaten in Logstedshire. A piece of stale bread? Maybe? Half a slice of burnt steak?

He’d never been a great cook, and the fact that Dream kept blowing up all his things didn’t help how low he’d been on food.

But now...

Tommy peeled open the first chest and peered inside. Blinding yellow light greeted him, and he flinched away, nearly dropping the chest lid.

“What the fuck,” he murmured, blinking rapidly before going back to look again.

This time, he was prepared for the light. He squinted against it, prying the lid all the way open so he could see.

Gapples. Golden apples upon golden apples upon golden apples. Stacks and stacks of them sat one on top of the other.

“Ho-ly shit,” Tommy whispered under his breath, eyes widening.

How did Technoblade have all of these? Gapples were incredibly hard to make, and even harder to find. Yet, Techno appeared to have not one, not two, not even three, but _five_ stacks of them. Doing some quick math led Tommy to the conclusion that Technoblade had 320 golden apples at his disposal.

320.

_Holy fuckin’ shit._

Tommy stretched an arm into the chest, eyes locked on a particularly ripe apple, when he suddenly froze.

Normally, Tommy had no qualms against stealing from other people. He’d done it thousands of times back in the Dream SMP, and even more once he and Wilbur had started the Drug Van and created L’Manburg. But what would Dream think about this? This was the whole reason he’d been exiled, wasn’t it? His recklessness. His stealing. His griefing of other’s property. His not thinking before acting—which was exactly what he had been about to do.

Retracting his hand, Tommy swallowed hard and shut the chest lid. He didn’t need gapples. Sure, his body was aching from the walk in the snow and the days down in the mines in Logstedshire, and sure he had some particularly nasty burns on his arms and back from TNT explosions, but those were all things that would fade over time. If he stole from Technoblade, however, he could never take that back.

Shaking his head, Tommy moved on to the second chest. He wouldn’t steal golden apples, but he did need _something_. Bread, steak, even a normal apple would be preferable to nothing.

After hunting through the chests, Tommy retreated away from them with a piece of bread, a slice of cooked steak, and some milk clutched to his chest.

Now where?

Tommy circled around, his eyes catching on a ladder next to the front door. Beneath the ladder was a trap door, and above it was a hole leading to the house’s second story.

Tommy’s limbs ached at the thought of climbing it, but he didn’t want to get caught down here if someone came home. At least if he was on another floor he had a slightly better chance of escaping alive.

Clutching the food he’d gathered tightly beneath one arm, Tommy climbed the ladder up to Technoblade’s second floor.

He’d been relatively quiet the whole time he’d been inside the house. He’d kept his surprised exclamations to a whisper, kept his footsteps light, and closed every door and lid—minus the first chest's—with careful precision. But as Tommy climbed the ladder, his foot—still slightly numb from the cold—missed a rung and he cried out, scrambling to catch his footing again. The toe of his sneaker hit against the ladder, and Tommy hurried to slide it back onto the rung.

Phew. That had been a close one. He’d nearly fallen on his ass to the bottom of the ladder, and with all of his muscles already aching, he wasn’t sure how much more bruising they could take. He-

“Techno? You alright, mate?”

Tommy froze. His heart beat slammed into a quick rhythm against his chest, pounding in his ears and filling them with the sound of rushing blood.

Oh no. Oh shit. He’d stupidly assumed no one was home because there’d been no one downstairs, but the voice had come from upstairs. _Phil’s_ voice. _Phil_ was here, and the house was not empty, and oh god oh god oh god he was going to die like Wilbur had, by his father’s own sword, for stealing from him.

Tommy struggled to keep his breathing quiet as he tried to tiptoe back down the ladder. But it was too late. The trapdoor above his head squealed open at the same time that Tommy’s foot missed a rung _again_ , and he plummeted to the ground.

He landed hard on his bottom, the jolt sending a shock through all the nerves that had previously been frozen solid. The bread and steak skid across the floor, knocking against the front door, while the milk glass shattered beside him. A spray of white liquid and shattered glass covered the whole floor in a fine, milky sheen.

Fuck.

“Ow,” Tommy mumbled, wincing and rubbing his arm as he sat up. He’d tried to catch himself with it on the way down, but had only succeeded in banging his elbow into the floor.

“Tommy?”

Tommy looked up, and his wide eyes caught on Philza. Phil crouched at the top of the ladder, peering down into the room below with equally wide eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

Oh no. This was not good.

“I’m leaving! I’m leaving! I promise, I’m leaving!” Tommy blurt out, nearly choking on the words as they rushed to get out of his mouth. “I’m sorry! I didn’t think anyone was here and I was pretty cold and hungry out in that fuckin’ blizzard so I thought ‘hm, this house probably has food’ and I shouldn’t have gone inside but I was freezing and I’m really sorry and—"

“Tommy, stop.”

Tommy froze, milk seeping into his pants and flowing around his fingers as he waited for Phil to come down and kill him. He was mad. Tommy could see it in his eyes. Phil’s blue eyes gleamed as he set a foot down on the ladder and climbed down, then turned to face his youngest son. He made to walk closer, taking a step into the murky liquid coating the floor, but Tommy flinched back and Phil paused.

Tommy could see Phil’s train of thought as the older man’s eyes dropped down to Tommy’s clothes, then his shoes—ratted and singed from use and TNT explosions—then to the floor around him, covered in milk and shattered glass. He saw confusion, horror, and disappointment all flicker across Phil’s face, and he tried not to shrink back too much at the implications of those emotions. Phil was upset he’d shown up, wasn’t he? Upset he’d come in and then made a mess all over his living room floor. He’d made a mess again, like he always did.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Phil finally said, breaking Tommy from his thoughts. “Then we can talk, alright?”

He extended a hand to Tommy, probably to help pull him out of the milk, but Tommy scooted back to stand up on his own. Maybe Phil was being nice to him now, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t kill him once he realized what he’d been trying to do. He needed to get out of here. _Out, out, out, escape, escape, escape_...

“Come with me.”

Phil led Tommy upstairs, and without food in his arms the climb up the ladder was much easier. They emerged onto the second floor, and Phil brought Tommy over to a small bathroom—cramped and nearly hidden behind Techno’s stacks of books. They both stepped inside.

“I have some extra clothes in here that should just about fit you,” Phil said, swinging open another door that led into a closet stuffed with chests. He pulled open the first one and dug through it while Tommy stood, nervously shifting from foot to foot. “Aha! Found it.”

Phil closed the chest and turned back to Tommy with a grin. In his arms he held a light blue sweater, a pair of jeans, and a long, fuzzy, red and white cloak. Tommy hesitantly took them, pulling them into his chest and then staggering back as Phil moved out of the closet.

“I’ll let you get dressed in those. Then we can see about your hair and clean some of that dirt off your face. You really walked all the way here?”

Tommy nodded.

For a second, Phil looked like he was about to laugh. But then his eyebrows knit together and he stepped closer. “Are you okay, Tommy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or some shit.”

Tommy instinctively stepped back, keeping distance between himself and his father. If Phil were to suddenly pull out a sword, an axe, TNT... Tommy was done for. He had no weapons. No armor. Nothing on him but soggy clothes and worn out shoes.

“‘M fine,” he mumbled, squeezing the fresh clothes to himself even tighter. “I just... I just need to change.”

Phil stared at him for a long, hard moment, before finally tearing his gaze away and moving back towards the door. “Alright. I’ll be downstairs when you’re done.”

Tommy nodded, and then the door closed and he was alone again.

His fingers shook as he set the clothes down on a counter and began peeling off his own, soggy layers. He tossed them in the tub behind him—milk dripping into the basin—and hurried to pull on the warm sweater and jeans. They were a little small, obviously meant for Phil, but not so small that they were uncomfortable. Once he’d pulled those on, he turned his attention to the red cloak still laying on the counter. It was eerily reminiscent of Technoblade’s cape—down to the white wool lining the hem—but it was smaller, only meant to be worn around the shoulders. Tommy wrapped it around himself, tying the strings messily in front before turning back to his pile of wet clothing.

That had been his favorite shirt, before. Red and white, loose fitting and perfect for galavanting around the SMP in. Now the white had been tinted gray with soot and dirt and ash, and the red had faded from all his time in the sun out in Logstedshire. There was a hole in the shoulder that had been torn by Dream’s sword. They’d been sparring for fun, and Dream had said it was an accident, but Dream never fought with anything less than absolute precision. His swings hit every mark they intended to, deftly avoided every object that wasn’t their chosen target. Dream hadn’t missed that day. Tommy knew it, deep down, and it made his lungs constrict, made it harder to breathe. He’d looked up at Dream with real fear that day, possibly for the first time ever. But he’d pretended it was an accident. Laughed and joked that Dream was getting rusty with his aim. He’d ignored the obvious because the obvious was terrifying.

And that’s exactly what he did now, turning away from the pile of ragged clothes and leaving the bathroom.

He took the ladder back downstairs, warmth from the fire greeting him as he turned around. Phil was poking at the logs with the edge of a pickaxe, pushing them around in the flickering, red and orange flames. He must have just put them in, because Tommy could have sworn that all that was in there earlier were barely burning scraps.

Phil looked up at him as he stepped off the ladder. His eyes immediately warmed, a smile tugging his lips upward. “How do they fit?”

Tommy shrugged, stretching his arms out in front of him. The edge of his cape slid off his forearms, making the whole thing dangle like wings from his upper arms and shoulders. The sweater was nice, and warm, and only a little small. It reminded him of Ghostbur’s baggy, yellow one. The pants were definitely small as well, but nothing that some long socks or boots couldn’t fix. That was, if Phil wanted to give him some.

Why was Phil giving him anything at all? Tommy wasn’t sure what to think of it. He’d been caught stealing from him, and now he was wearing his clothes, still standing inside his warm house, and had yet to be yelled at, or even just scolded.

Phil cleared his throat, and Tommy realized he was still waiting for an answer.

“Fine,” he said, voice cracking. “I... I left my other clothes upstairs.”

“That’s fine. I’ll get them later,” Phil said. He turned back to the fire. “Did you bring anything else with you?”

As if a bow had been drawn, pulled, and released—Tommy’s heart launched into his throat. What did Phil mean? Did he have anything else on him? Did Phil want it? He probably did; Dream always had.

The fire sparked, and even though it was all the way on the other side of the living room, Tommy flinched away from the flame.

The edge of a TNT wick—igniting. A sizzle. A pause in which he thought maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t explode today. Then a sound so deafening it left his ears ringing no matter how close or far he stood. The smell of gunpowder and burnt grass ripped from the ground. Smoke. A green man with a permanent smile. Another man that had grown a maniacal one. He, too, held TNT in his hands. He, too, ignited the flame and heard the sizzle and— _BOOM!_ —watched it explode. Watched his whole country tear itself to shreds with the press of a button.

Tommy had watched Logstedshire explode. He watched Ghostbur’s little house crumble into the dust. Watched his tent, affectionately called “Tnret,” catch fire and burn away. He looked down on twin craters from 157 blocks in the air, and in that moment he’d almost let himself explode, too.

“Tommy?”

Tommy blinked, and suddenly Phil’s face was right in front of his. He was back inside Techno’s house—the fire, abandoned, crackling in the corner. There was no TNT here.

There _probably_ was no TNT here.

Warm hands placed themselves on Tommy’s shoulders, and he very nearly vomited.

Phil pulled back, fear flickering brighter in his eyes. What did Phil have to be afraid of? Certainly not him. Tommy had nothing. He was barely more than nothing, himself. So why was Phil looking at him like that? Why were his hands hovering as if he was worried about burning himself on Tommy’s skin? Not that Tommy wanted Phil to touch him. Not that he wanted anyone to touch him. Actually, what he really wanted was to be left alone. And wasn’t that ironic considering aloneness was what he’d just run from.

Tommy took a step back. All these emotions were too confusing. They jumbled and twisted and jumped over each other inside his head, each one fighting to become the dominant one. Anger—for a million things Tommy didn’t even want to start naming. Sadness—the same, deep, aching sadness that Ghostbur had always handed him pieces of Blue to quell. Fear—pain and anxiety making his heart beat faster and his forehead sweat. And over that, perhaps trying to preserve what little sanity Tommy had left, was a thick blanket of numbness. Right now it wasn’t working, but, if he wanted to, he could pull it up over himself to block out the flood of panic, the flood of tears, the flood of anger, the flood of—

“Tommy, shh. It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Tommy hated that he kept forgetting he was in Technoblade’s house. He hated the fact that his chest felt like it was being squeezed by a million rubber bands. He hated the fact that he’d tried to run away. Why had he run away? Dream was the only one who cared about him. But if Dream was the only one who cared about him, why was Phil telling him he was safe here?

A hand hesitantly came down on his shoulder again, and this time Tommy didn’t flinch away.

“You need to breathe,” Phil said gently, stepping closer once it became apparent Tommy wasn’t going to spaz again. “Breathe, son.”

If there was one thing Tommy could do now, it was listen. So he did as he was told: inhaled, exhaled, and repeated until his lungs were no longer on fire.

“That’s it. You got it.”

“Why are you helping me?” Tommy asked once he had enough air to wheeze out words.

If it was at all possible, Phil’s gaze softened even further. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re my son.”

Tommy’s chest stung. “Why didn’t you come and visit me, then? In exile? Why didn’t you come to my party?”

“What party?”

“The beach party.”

“I never got an invitation.”

Tommy shook his head. “Ghostbur said he would send them. He sent them. I know he had to have sent them.”

Phil stared into his eyes for a long moment. His eyebrows were furrowed together, hand clutching Tommy’s shoulder as if to ground them both. “No one I talked to got one, Tommy. Not a single person on this server.”

Tommy felt all the color drain from his cheeks as he replayed the scene in his head. He was sitting on a log he’d dragged over to the beach, his elbows resting against the table as he stared at the cake sitting in the middle of it. He hadn't touched it.

_“Why did no one come?” he asked._

_Dream sat across from him. He had a slice of cake in front of himself, his fork hovering just beneath his mask’s faux smile. “I...don’t know. Ghostbur delivered them. I saw.”_

_A moment passed, and Dream gestured to the cake with his other hand. “You look hungry. You should eat. It’s actually pretty good.”_

_Tommy shook his head, pushing himself up onto weary legs and walking away from the table. “I’ve lost my appetite.”_

Was Phil meaning to tell him that no one had gotten his invitations? Did he really expect him to believe that? _Did_ he believe that? Dream was his friend, he wouldn’t lie. Would he? No. Dream _wasn’t_ his friend. He’d manipulated him. He’d... he’d been there for him when no one else had. Had no one else been there because of Dream, though?

It was all too confusing. Too overwhelming. He’d come here for food and shelter. He hadn’t expected to have to face his emotions so soon. He needed time. He needed a nap. He needed...

He choked out a sob, feeling his resolve to stay strong crumble under his need to finally break. Once one tear fell, more continued to follow it until he found himself sobbing uncontrollably.

Phil pulled him into his chest, and even though Tommy didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want to be babied, he didn’t pull away. He didn’t have the energy to. Instead, he let himself be held while he cried and cried and finally broke down.

“I’m sorry,” Phil said from above him. His fingers were running through Tommy’s hair, gently undoing the knots and tangles exile had given it. “I’m sorry I didn’t come. I should have come. I should have known.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Tommy sobbed. He didn’t know what he was talking about, though. George’s house? How he’d screwed over L’Manburg by letting Wilbur press that button? All the times he’d gone against Dream and been punished for it? Fighting Technoblade in the pit? “I didn’t mean to mess up. I didn’t mean to hurt people. I didn’t mean to be a shit person.”

“You’re not a shit person...”

“Yes I am! I am and I know it! You don’t have to lie to me!” Tommy hiccuped. “I don’t deserve anything I’ve been given. Even if other people did care about me, I don’t deserve it. I ruin everything I touch! I shouldn’t even be here!”

Phil’s breath caught. Tommy felt it under his cheek. He sniffled and tried to pull away, but Phil only clutched him tighter.

“You don’t mean that,” Phil said, his voice dangerously quiet.

When Tommy only continued to hiccup in Phil’s arms, a thick silence fell over the house. The wind and snow battered at the windows, and the fire continued to crackle behind them, but besides that the house was completely silent.

Tommy sighed, leaning into Phil’s warmth. Phil smelled like coffee cake. Cinnamon and sugar and warm morning coffee. It was a stark contrast to the smells he had become accustomed to in exile: grass and dirt and the charred, burning smell of lava that stung the very back of his nose. Dream’s smell. The smell of oak wood and TNT.

“I want to go home,” Tommy mumbled into Phil’s chest after a minute had passed.

Phil ran a hand through Tommy’s tangles again. “I know. I know.”

After awhile, Tommy’s exhausted limbs got tired of standing, and they moved to the couch. Phil continued to hold him close, his legs draped over Phil’s as the man practically cradled him. Normally, Tommy might have felt embarrassed about being held like a child who’d gotten a scraped knee. But right then he was too tired to care, and his eyelids were already drooping shut.

He sniffled, turning his head into Phil’s shoulder and closing his eyes. “‘M tired, Phil. Can I sleep ‘ere?”

“Of course. Get some sleep, and I’ll be here whenever you wake up, okay? Want some soup later?”

Tommy nodded, but even that took effort. His surroundings were already fading, his consciousness slipping away to the steady rhythm of Phil’s heartbeat.

“G’night,” Tommy exhaled.

“Goodnight, Tommy,” Phil said, and Tommy could hear the smile in his voice. “Welcome home.”

That was the last thing Tommy heard before he succumbed, allowing the smell of coffee cake to lull him to sleep.


End file.
